He Isn't There Anymore
by Grape Lemonade
Summary: 'He was a hero, a brother, and one of the best Musketeers I have ever had the privilege to know.' A world where Porthos died from his injuries. How different characters reacted and tried to carry on without him. More obscure characters included. Varying lengths.
1. Flea

When he left, Flea told herself she would forget him.

When he wasn't around, Flea told herself she didn't need him.

When he returned, Flea told herself she didn't love him anymore.

When he left again, Flea told herself they could never be together.

When he died, Flea told herself there would be life after him.

Flea told herself she would recover.

Flea told herself she needed to be Queen.

Flea told herself that's what he would have wanted.

Flea told herself a lot of things.

It didn't work.

Charon had tried to destroy her home, Porthos had been a hero, and she was just Flea. She wore her title like a crown, and her heart on her sleeve. She stole from nobles and gave to children. She stops fights and teaches children how to steal. She drinks far to much and eats far too little. She was falling apart, and there was nobody left to pick up the pieces of her. She had admirers that didn't understand. She had friends who'd stab her in the back at a heartbeat. And she'd do the same to them. She had stood among the trees in the cemetery and hadn't shed a tear. She watched his friends leave one by one. She stayed. Then she turned on her heel and left. She was just Flea. She was a Queen. She would learn how to live again one day. She just needed to survive until then.


	2. King Louis

**Forgot to do it last time so: I don't own these characters.**

King Louis.

I'm going to a hanging today. Of a man who killed one of my Musketeers. He was a large man, and I liked him. Shame. I think his name's Pavlos, or was it Porthos? I'm going to wear my embroidered gold jacket, with those matching boots. I'd never usually attend a hanging, but I was quite fond of the man he killed. Good at hunting and a good laugh. I think I'll miss him. The fun's gone out of the Captain. He must have been fond of him too. I do hope there won't be any poor people there, their stench really spoils a day. He was a good man.


	3. Constance

**I don't own these characters.**

I've seen d'Artagnan cry before. He cries at night when he thinks nobody's listening. He cries when he's injured and too proud to admit it. He cries when he thinks of his father. But I've never seen like this before. Sobbing, drinking, fighting, start again. The humour's left his eyes, the smile's left his face. His passion for his job has gone. He has trouble getting up in the morning. I don't blame him. His friend, his brother, died. Porthos. It's so strange to think that man doesn't exist anymore. He doesn't walk around the streets, doesn't go to sleep or fight or live anymore. And all it took was a finger on a trigger. He seemed to have a presence about him, something reassuring. He'd take my hand and assure me d'Artagnan was fine, and I believed him. He'd never let anything happen to him. He'd keep him safe. When I heard about his death it didn't sink in. Only at night did I cry. I cried for him and I cried for Aramis, I cried for Athos and I cried for d'Artagnan. I cried for the orphans who's eyes lit up when they see him coming, asking for another story. I cried for Treville, and I cried for France. Then I dried my eyes and made breakfast and gave it to d'Artagnan, making sure he eats it all. I should have got to know Porthos better, I shouldn't have let him go unnoticed. But now it's too late.

D'Artagnan will heal some day, but he'll never be the same. There's no guarantee he'll survive the next mission. If they could kill Porthos, strong, brave Porthos, what make d'Artagnan so different. And I spend every moment with him like it's our last. His death made me realise, stopped me hiding in the shadows. D'Artagnan still has the nightmares, I hear him screaming in his sleep. He will heal eventually, he will cover the pain. I don't know how he will, but he will. I'll never forget him though, and the lesson he taught me.


	4. The Cardinal

**I don't own the Musketeers.**

**I hate my self for writing this.**

**The Cardinal**

When Milady told him he rejoiced. He opened another bootle of wine and yelled to the skies. One of Treville's finest Musketeers was dead. Dead. And he wouldn't be surprised if his friends got himself killed, Aramis and him had seemed very close. Dead, Porthos the Musketeer was dead. The man had caused problems in the past, as had the rest of them. "Milady, stab them at his funeral. Kill all three of them. And then do me a favour, and spit on his grave." He almost sang the last bit, he could just see it now. Once they were dead he could raise questions about them, give the king doubts. The king would stop trusting Treville, then all that was needed was a knife in the Captain's back. Power was in his grasp, and all he needed was the rest of them dead. That wouldn't be too hard. Porthos was the driving force behind them, and without him they would fall apart. He raised his glass in the air in a silent toast to whoever shot the man. The three remaining will fall apart without him. Maybe he's being merciful by arranging a knife in their backs.


	5. Captain Treville

**I don't any characters.**

**Captain Treville**

Treville remembered the days he was captain of the four most skilled soldiers in Paris. Aramis, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan. They were brothers in all but blood, and saved each other's lives on a daily basis. They got any mission done, and laughed about it on an evening. They weren't perfect, but they were close enough. They were happy, and kept each other alive. They broke rules as often as they broke down doors. And that was a lot. Especially when Aramis went through that phase of keeping everything of value under his hat. Including his keys.

Then he'd heard the news. The news that Porthos wouldn't be returning. His world shattered. His regiment fell apart before his eyes. The drink was the only way of avoiding the pain. When he had started the job his superiors had said that you shouldn't get too close to soldiers because you had to be strong if they died. And with any other soldier that would be the case. But not Porthos. Not the man he had seen brawling at the court. Not the man who dreamed of being a soldier. Not the man who never gave up. Not the man who had pulled Aramis out of his post Savoy depression. Not the man who had secretly sneaked out every night to practise sword fighting when he could be out drinking. Not sound, reassuring Porthos. Not him.

And he couldn't be strong. He could appear it in front of his regiment and in front of the king. But inside he was broken and bleeding, his death grating against his heart. He read out a speech at his funeral. Just like he had at Athos' fake one. He remembered the large man's tears, merely at the thought of one of his friend's death. He read out the words. Porthos would want this. He'd want a soldier's funeral, he'd want his coffin draped in a blue cloak. He'd be proud to have died saving Aramis. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that someone so good was stolen by something so evil.

Treville remembered the days he was captain of the four most skilled soldiers in Paris. Aramis, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan. They were brothers in all but blood, and saved each other's lives on a daily basis. They got any mission done, and laughed about it on an evening. They weren't perfect, but they were close enough. They were happy, and kept each other alive.

Treville is the captain of the three most skilled soldiers in Paris. Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan. They were brothers once, and risk their lives on a daily basis. They get any mission done, and don't care if they survived or didn't. They aren't broken men, but they are close enough. They are miserable, and one day they'll leave this world.

And Treville hopes with all his heart that they'll become brothers once again in the world after this.


	6. Alice

**I don't own these characters.**

**Thank you Sir Lancelot The Brave, See Me As I Am 101 and laced-with-fire for reviewing. Your reviews really inspire me to keep writing. **

**If you have thoughts on which characters to do next I would really appreciate your ideas. **

**Alice**

Alice wept. Great gasping sobs which made her throat burn. Nobody knew why the usually happy woman grew depressed. Nobody understood.

A few servants knew that she'd been involved with a soldier. They knew the soldier had died.

Her friends didn't understand why she cried every day. Why she locked herself in her room. Why she burned her blue dress. Why she collapsed every time a blue cloaked soldier passed her. They thought her husband's death had got to her. Though she had never cried like this for him. She was usually strong.

Alice cried into her pillow every night. She never looked at another man that way again. She never fell in love again.

She regretted leaving him. They could have made it work. They'd never get that chance again. She could've been a soldier's wife. She could've done it. She could've married him. But she backed out. She ignored her longing for him. She tried to forget the feeling of his lips on hers. She tried to go back to her plain, safe life. Everyday she thought of him. Every day.

And then he was gone.

Her soldier lover had died. He was a sensitive listener. Was. That's what death does, it changed is to was. They were in love. She was happy. He was happy too. Was.

There's no point anymore. Why pretend. He isn't there, he isn't breathing. He isn't doing what he loves. He isn't saving the world, changing lives. He's lying in a coffin. In a Cemetery. There are always flowers by his grave. She knows. She goes there everyday.

Sometimes she sees other people there. A woman in a ripped dress. Thieves. Orphans. Noblemen. Farmers. Men she recognises from when she saw the fight. His comrades. His brothers. His friends.

She leaves them in peace, doesn't disturb their grief. They lay down fresh flowers. Some of them kneel in silence. One of them, the one others refer to as Aramis, goes there the most. He kneels and talks.. He knows Porthos can't hear him. He still talks.

It seems the whole of France grieves for him.

He touched people's hearts. He gave them something to rely on, to trust. He was the foundations that kept people upright. And when he isn't there they fall down.

And she isn't sure she has the strength to stand back up.


	7. Athos

**All rights go to the BBC**

Aramis sits frozen, not comprehending, refusing to.

D'Artagnan is sobbing in the corner.

Treville is just standing there.

Athos feels empty. He acts rationally.

He covers Porthos' head with the sheet. He tells the physician standing at the door that his services are no longer required. He stands over the body and prays that Porthos will go to Heaven. Then he puts on his hat and walks out the door. He should probably be helping the others. Walking them home. But his feet guide him forward. He enters the Court. He tells Flea. He watches her cry without offering comfort. There is no comfort now.

He walks home. He sits on his bed. He takes of his boots. He takes of his hat. He lies down. He instructs his limbs to do simple movements. He takes the bottle of wine from next to his bed. He walks to the window. He hurls the bottle out. It arcs through the sky, reflecting the moons light in a thousand different directions. Then it shatters on the floor. Red wine pools.

The bottle's flight was Porthos' life. Lighting up the world around him. Coming from the dark. Soaring high. Then shattering on the ground. Blood pools.

He staggers back to his bed, leaning heavily on it. He's gone. Just gone. He died to save Aramis. He would've wanted it to be like that. It hurt so much. He died. He'd never come back. He'd never appear at his door. He'd never cover for him as he staggered in with a hangover. He'd never fight for him again. Defending him in bar brawls like he does on a battlefield. Did.

A week later Athos stares up at the ceiling. There's straw behind him. There's blood on his hands. His friend's name on his lips. A headache, or is it heartache. They seem to merge into one. He stabbed the man who shot Porthos. He had hunted him down, waited for him in a bar he frequented. Stabbed him through the stomach. Where Porthos had gotten hit. He'd watched the man bleed to death in front of him. It was only right that he should die. After what he did. He was in Hell now. For what he did.

Treville had stood outside his door. He'd asked Athos to never return to the Musketeers. He had cried as he walked away. Athos didn't know if Treville was crying for him or Porthos. Maybe for both. Athos sat in silence. D'Artagnan had come to visit him, pleaded with him to say he hadn't killed that man. Pleaded that it was all a mistake. He had cried too. Athos' eyes were dry. Tears wouldn't bring Porthos back.

D'Artagnan was a mess. The boy had fallen into depression's cold embrace. He had sunken so far he could never get out. Athos's heart ached for him. He wanted to make everything better for his little brother. D'Artagnan's face blended with Thomas's. He had failed him. He had failed them both.

He did not reach for the drink. He had been blind to the world for far too long. He was done with hiding behind a bottle, done with being a coward. He wouldn't hide from his own past any longer. He would pay for his sins. Suffer for the things he did. And the things he didn't do. Didn't save Thomas. Didn't save Porthos. Couldn't even save d'Artagnan, who had a chance of surviving. Athos didn't try and escape from the cell. There would be no point. Treville could arrange a fair court. D'Artagnan could bribe and blackmail the witnesses. They could pin the death down to a bar brawl. Treville could give him another chance at in the Musketeers. He could carry on living.

But what was the point?

What was the point of living on?

Living without his large friend. Without his jokes, his grins, his gambling. What was the point of living if they could never be the four Musketeers again?

As Athos stood in front of the noose he was thankful that Aramis and d'Artagnan didn't have to see this. They would have to hear about it. It would be hard for them, but their hearts were already shattered into so many pieces, Athos' death would only spread those pieces further apart. And he needed to release himself from this constant nightmare. He slipped the noose around his neck.

He had died the day he held Thomas' limp body in his arms.

He had died the day his wife hung under his order.

He had died the day Porthos' heart stopped beating.

This would be easier.

The platform fell away and the rope tightened around his neck. He was going to a better place, where he could see Thomas and Porthos again. He felt his last breath leave his lungs, and at last felt peace.


	8. D'Artagnan

**Second to last chapter.**

**I don't own anything to do with the Musketeers (except the box set).**

D'Artagnan wished he could feel empty like Athos. Or angry like Treville. Anything but this feeling. This feeling of dispair. It shouldn't have happened. It was unfair.

He wished he could be composed and strong, like Porthos would have wanted.

But his grief left him in great sobs that exploded from his chest. In wails that made his head spin and his heart throb. He couldn't do it. He couldn't heal. Couldn't get over it.

Porthos had been injured before. Stared death in the eye and managed to carry on living. Carried on fighting, drinking, gambling. But he hadn't this time. He'd died. Stopped living. Stopped breathing. And he never would again.

He was somewhere in the land above, looking down. Meeting his mother again. Reuniting with childhood friends who hadn't survived the cold Winters. Having the time of his life. Well, death. But d'Artagnan wanted to be selfish. He wanted Porthos down here with him, fighting with him, drinking with him. He wanted his brother back.

Porthos had comforted him after his father's death. Like only a orphan can. He understood. He was willing to talk at a stupid time in the morning about the little things. Willing to practise with him through the night to improve his combat skills. And cover for him in the morning when he fell asleep during practise. Just because he was a good man. And a great brother. Because he was willing to help another simply because they needed it. Because he put his brother's lives so far in front of his own he was willing to die for them. And in the end he did.

He took a bullet that would have killed Aramis. Jumped in front of him. He meant to die. He knew at that moment there was no way he could survive, and still chose to jump in front. To joke about how he would be fighting again in the morning. Chose to hide his pain to make it easier for the others. Then he had stopped breathing. On a hastily cleared desk in Treville's office. Before the physician had even entered the room. His last words twisted and echoed around the young man's head. "It's not your fault." It's not your fault. His last words one last reassurance. To try and make the pain easier. It's not your fault. He'd made his choice. Decided to die so his brother could live. But d'Artagnan had seen the look on Aramis's face. He didn't look alive. It didn't feel like living.

There were so many things he could have said. Should have said. That he'd never get the chance to say again. Should've asked him. Should've told him. Should've thanked him. For defending him through thick and thin. For accepting him into their brotherhood. For making him embrace life when he had nothing after his father passed away. For forgiving him when he had doubted his brother in all but blood. For helping him when he was injured. For opening his eyes to the world around. For making him stop closing his eyes to the poverty that surrounds him. For showing that anything could be achievable. For being living proof of that fact.

Porthos is gone.

And he missed his large friend.

Missed his surprisingly gentle hands. Missed his knowing smirk. Missed the way he made everything seem okay. He'd help him get over this. If he could. If he was still around there would be nothing to get over. If he was still around.

But he isn't.

Aramis survived and Porthos didn't. He would want it that way.

Aramis is wasting away. Athos can't sleep for nightmares.

And everyone looked at him with pity in their eyes. He probably looked just as bad. Great shadows under blotchy eyes. Haggard features from a mix of exhaustion and lack of food. He isn't hungry anymore. Food turned bitter in his mouth. Wine turned to ash the second it touched his tongue. Lack of sleep made his actions sluggish. He had gone back to the garrison. He duelled. Treville looked on with despairing eyes. That was understandable. He lost every time. And he was pretty sure they were going easy on him. He was a hazard in a battle. He could see his career tumbling down before his eyes. And the scariest thing was he couldn't bring himself to care.

He had dreamed of being a Musketeer. He had practised with a sword ever since he was a young boy, his skill gradually improving with age. All so he could travel to Paris and become a soldier. And his dreams had all come true. So why didn't it feel good? Why didn't he fill with pride every time someone called him sir, or a Musketeer nodded at him with respect? Why did he wish he and his father had never set off for Paris? That he had learnt to farm and married a nice girl. That he had inherited the farm, had a few children. Grew old in peace and quiet. Held his grandchildren on his knee.

But that could never be him. He fed off adventure and lived for the next battle. He was destined to learn things the hard way. And he fell in love with his landlady, and got his heart broken. He met three men who would become his brothers. He had the time of his life, and healed his heart in the process. Got over his father's death, thanks to his friends.

But now he felt different. Longed for his quiet farming life. For his picturesque farm, for his worrying mother. For the future he chose to not to live. But being a Musketeer is more than a game. More than a child's dream. And he couldn't cope with the sadness. He couldn't carry on.

Not when everything in Paris reminded him of Porthos. Not when he couldn't even drink without remembering the man who used to carry him home. Not when he couldn't stay where he had first stayed because it reminded him of a life he could have had with Constance. Not when Athos spent his days in a prison cell. Not when Aramis couldn't find it in himself to live again.

So d'Artagnan set off, out of Paris, out of the life he could have lived. Rode away towards his awaiting farm. Towards his mother, and the life he lived once. And would live again. He set up his farm. He still practised sword fighting and shooting, a tribute to his time as a Musketeer. Constance arrived on a midnight horse, with tears in her eyes. They met and they kissed, and didn't care who saw it. For the first time. And soon d'Artagnan was teaching young Porthos how to operate a plow and hold a sword. And Aramis and Athos soon after. They'd never meet their namesakes, only hear their father's stories.

Porthos went to Paris. Helped people living in poverty. Aramis became a Musketeer, then an explorer, discovering medical herbs that would save thousands of lives. Athos stayed with him, learning how to master the farm. He earned respect in the village, falling in love with a beautiful woman, who soon became his blushing bride. They were happy, and soon d'Artagnan and Constance were bouncing grandchildren on their knees.

And as d'Artagnan grew old, he never forgot his three brothers. The sacrifices they made, and the way they accepted him. He'd never forget their deaths, Porthos's perhaps the most merciful. For he died surrounded by people who cared for him, with a proud heart for the sacrifice he made. The other's died shrouded in darkness, alone. He would die holding Constance's hand, and that is a privilege not many people have.

Everyday he thought of them. He thought of Porthos, his loyal, reliable friend. He thought of Athos, of how he had confided in him and trusted him. He thought of Aramis, and the amount of times his stitching had saved his life. He thought of the adventures they had. He thought of the wonderful nights they had shared in inns, thought of the feeling of absolute safety he felt whenever he was with them. He thought of the man he could've been. The future he could've had. Had circumstances been kind to them.

He lived in a place close to Heaven. Be had grown old in his paradise next to the woman he loved. And it broke his heart they could never have the same.


	9. Aramis

**I don't own anything Musketeer related.**

**This has also been published as a separate fic.**

**Thought I should finally finish the story.**

**Please please please review and tell me what you think.**

* * *

Not him, no, not him. Anyone but him. D'Artagnan stood in front of Aramis, tears running down his face. No, not him. Please God don't let it be him. D'Artagnan didn't mutter a word, just turned and walked away. In, through the carved wooden doors and into the room beyond. He pointed up the steps. Aramis took three at a time, his feet pounding on the marble staircase as he ran. The West wing was a makeshift hospital, physicians working to save the wounded Musketeers. There had been a fight, too many casualties. Too many. And now he had been called up here to see someone. For one second he wished it was Captain Treville. He was a good captain, but Aramis would never really forgive him for Savoy. Let it be him. Then he arrived, and the physician looked up and beckoned him inside before leaving. And lying on the posh, now bloodstained bed was… Porthos. Broken, bleeding out of a wound on his side Porthos. The musket ball had severed right through his stomach. He was as pale as the sheets he lay on, his eyes barely open. "Aramis?" His voice was too weak, pain replacing the usual joy he heard there.

"I'm here, I'm here." He knelt beside the injured man, clasping his limp hand in his own, calloused skin on smooth. His hand was too limp.

"Thank you for everything. You told me about Heaven, great feasts and singing angels. I'm gonna see my mother again, but I don't want to leave you. I don't wanna die, Mis, I don't wanna die." He closed his eyes, letting out a ragged breath.

"Stay with me, please stay with me. Don't go, you can't go. I need you, I need you. Don't go." Tears were running down his cheeks and he was squeezing his hand too hard. Porthos let out one final breath, before he slipped into oblivion. Aramis pressed his forehead to the now cold hand, letting a sob wrack through him. "I love you. I always have." The words tumbled out of his mouth, the words he had wanted to say yet not had the courage to for so many years. He would never have the chance now. Porthos was gone. He was never coming back.

Everything seemed to move so slowly, moments stretching into years. Voices met his ears in distorted echoes, and his limbs wouldn't move. Athos limped in first, walking in and asking if Porthos would recover. When he saw the cold body he stood still, a carved statue. D'Artagnan came in next, and sank to the floor when he saw him. Treville joined them, and his face contorted with rage. The battle was won. One of them had killed the opposing commander, a move that saved so many soldier's lives. He was discovered with his face punched in and neck broken. Porthos had done it. He had died saving them all.

They travelled back to Paris. They sat on their horses in silence. A huge part was missing from their group. D'Artagnan tried to hide his sobs and Athos ignored the drink's beckoning to look after him. Aramis rode separate from the group. People tried to comfort him, but he didn't need them. He needed Porthis to come riding up with a grin on his face, slap him on the back and tell him a joke. He needed his brother. That night they set up camp. D'Artagnan cooked. Nobody in their number ate. Porthos always cooked. He used to take a dead squirrel and a few fish and make something delicious from it. He'd use things like leaves and bark, anything to make sure their stomachs were full. He look after them. D'Artagnan hadn't done too badly, but it wasn't the same. Aramis's stomach rumbled as he lay down. Porthos wouldn't have allowed that. He would have made him get up and forced him to eat. Then he'd sit with him till he fell asleep. And his presence would scare away the nightmares and allow him a peaceful night of deep sleep.

Aramis didn't sleep at all that night. He sat in the dark, watching the others swap watches and not volunteering. He didn't have the mind for that tonight. He heard the quiet sobs coming from d'Artagnan, and Athos's hushed comforts. Then, later on, the rhythmic thump of sword meeting the trunk of a tree as Athos let his anger burn. So instead he sat, watching a ghostly image of Porthos. He saw the first time they had met, the first time they shared a cell. He saw himself being selflessly rescued from countless angry husbands. He saw them drinking at the bar. He saw Porthos, brave, strong Porthos, being whipped in front of his very eyes because of a crime he had done. He saw injured, bleeding Porthos, in agony from a bullet that had come from his pistol. Then the image changed, and it was the dingy streets of the Court, the light from the moon glimmering in a thousand blades as they advanced on a young, frightened Porthos. He saw the boy getting restrained while one, the red cloak of a Red Guard clearly visible over his shoulder, brought his knife and dragged it slowly across his face, over his eye. He saw blood gushing down the boy's face before he fell unconscious on the cold streets. Then the same boy, this time a few years older and with a scar across his eye, knelt over a young girl with skin as black as coal as a Red Guard brought down his musket on the boy's head. Then he saw Charon, Porthos's friend, his once brother, with Aramis's sword through his stomach. He saw Porthos cradling his friend's limp body as tears ran down his face.

He had heard the tales in bits, from different people. Whether it was a awed orphan or a drunk old man. The words would sometimes come out of the man himself's own mouth if he had had too much to drink. He had seen the scars peppering his body, and met the people he had saved.

That was his legacy. They would tell the tales of his bravery in generations to come.

But Aramis wanted more.

He wanted to laugh with him, drink with him, get in trouble with him again. He wanted things to be just like they were.

The sun makes it's slow way across the horizon, signalling time to start riding again. Aramis skipped breakfast. So did everyone else.

They started to ride again.

They arrive back in Paris. Aramis heads to his rooms, but as he opens the door something catches his eye. A blonde curl disappearing past the doorframe of Porthos's rooms. He opens the creaky wooden door and steps in. He barely notices the woman sobbing in the chair. Porthos is sitting on the bed, mouth open in a silent laugh. He steps forward and reaches out, but the man disappears the second before his fingers can touch him.

The floor is barely visible, clothes and weapons randomly scattered across it. The fire is still and cold, a large pot hanging above it. Aramis can almost smell the delicious aroma coming from it. He can see the emergency medical kit he himself had stashed in the corner, alongside a bottle of wine peeping out from under a cupboard. Athos had put it there. For sterilising wounds apparently. He remembered how he and Porthos had laughed when he was gone. Sterilising wounds, yeah right.

He sits at the table, glancing across at the woman opposite him. At some point he had started crying, and now he couldn't stop. Her name was Flea. He had sown up a bullet wound in her shoulder. She loved Porthos. It was clear at the time when she had spoken of him with such longing, and it is clear now as she sits in his rooms. If it wasn't for her Porthos would have died.

"He invited me to come with him. I could have gone. I could have left the Court and become an honourable lady." Her voice was full of guilt and longing for what could have been. "I could have married him, and been with him. We could have had those precious moments together. Now it's too late." She wiped a tear from her eye. "The Court mourns for him. They love him still, even after all this time. And I still love him." She didn't look at him when she spoke, as if she wasn't talking directly to the man opposite her. "He left to become a good man. He died a great man. You should tell your Captain. Tell him nobody in the Court will harm a Musketeer again as long as I live. Tell him any friend of Porthos is a friend of us all. Please tell him that. Please." She got unsteadily to her feet. Then she squared her shoulders and held her head high. She walked out briskly, all hints of her earlier tears gone. This is how the world must see her. Strong and powerful, no room for weakness. It was a quality he knew well. She was just like Porthos. Strong, powerful. A wall around all emotions. They didn't know of the man he was inside, the always laughing, fearless, free man inside.

Aramis walks back into his room. Athos appears, and he relates Flea's message. Then he's gone again, and Aramis lays his head back on his bed. It still smells faintly of the barmaid's perfume. The flowery scent make him want to be sick. He sits back up again.

Porthos is gone. He's not coming back. Ever. It's already dark. He walks into Porthos's room again. He sits heavily on the bed, leaning his head back. He has spent many happy evenings here, just them. They would joke and laugh, drink and eat. Aramis would sew his shirts in return for a meal. It was what they had always done. It was what they would never do again. He closed his eyes. Night terrors poison his sleep, full of bloody whips and a screaming man. It is a relief to wake, but the thoughts that fill his mind make him want to go back to sleep again. It was the day of his funeral.

He stands there. Dressed in his best clothes, polished and cleaned especially. Athos did it. The man in question stands beside him, a hand resting against his arm. D'Artagnan stands on the other side of Athos, sobbing and shaking. Treville stands in front of them. In front of him in the coffin. The coffin. Large, wooden, nailed shut. With a blue Musketeer's cloak draped over it. He'd hate it in there. Yet there he is. Laying there with his hands folded across his chest and his skin as pale as parchment. A sob leaves his body. This reminds him of Athos's funeral, when they were just pretending to fool Milady. Porthos had shed a tear merely at the prospect of losing a brother. Aramis hadn't understood. He did now.

Behind him stood Alice and Flea. They stood side by side, a stark contrast. Alice was dressed in mourning colours again. They were so different, yet identical tears rolled down their faces. The Musketeers were circled around the coffin, and behind them stood so many people. They were all dressed in poor clothes, and most of them were thin. They all had different skin tones, and some even spoke different languages, though they were all silent now. There were a lot of slaves among them.

The funeral had taken over the whole graveyard. It was like the whole of Paris had come to mourn him.

He had been so alive, so free. He lived life to the full every moment of every day, and was thankful for everything he had. Flea's words were true. He had died a great man. And he would never be forgotten.


	10. Aramis 20

**I know its been 15 millennia since I last updated this story but I'm trying to complete or update all my stories, so that's why the last chapter is suddenly appearing now.**

**I had another idea to how Aramis might have reacted and decided to share it with you. This does not continue on from the last one.**

**I still don't own the musketeers *sheds silent tear*.**

Porthos died. Just like that, he died. One minute he was cursing away, telling Aramis that he'd be fine. Then his eyes started to grow dull. His grip on Aramis's arm loosened. Then his heart stopped beating. Blood stopped pumping around his body. He stopped breathing.

The day Porthos died was the day the world lost it's light, the day the hope that had always lived inside Aramis crumbled away into nothing.

It wasn't right that Porthos would die. It just wasn't right. Porthos was Porthos. He was strong, powerful, understanding, gentle, passionate. He was always there when Aramis needed him, with a smirk and pat on the back. He was the gulp of air when Aramis was drowning in his own memories, the hand that gripped him tight and pulled him out of whatever mess he was stuck in. He was just there, and Aramis didn't give his presence a second thought, until it was gone.

After Savoy, a darkness had settled over him, stifling the hope and joy out of him. A part of him died that night, and he thought he would never laugh again, never smile again, never love again. But time had healed him, and good ale and good times had healed the wounds that that night ripped into his heart. A good friend healed him. Athos was in too much pain to help Aramis, so Porthos shouldered the burden all by himself. The Musketeer could still remember endless nights lying awake, sobbing into Porthos' shoulder and wanting to fall on his own sword to end the pain.

Porthos would never allow that though.

He accompanied Aramis to every mission for months afterwards, taking the long routes to avoid woods and making sure to keep close to him and reassure him with his presence when there wasn't any other option.

He was like a wall, a rock anchoring him down. And even when he'd found his feet once again, and was capable of living like he had before, Porthos was still there with his unwavering support. The nightmares still came, and the bigger Musketeer was always just there with a story of when someone caught him cheating at cards and he had to hide in the cellar for two hours, or when he was a mission one time and it went wrong.

And they'd both turned up the next morning with tired eyes and lighter hearts, and didn't care what the hell anyone thought they were doing.

Aramis had fallen through the cracks, and there was no one to pull them out this time. So he kept falling and falling, until there was nothing left of him than an empty shell.

Aramis let himself smile.

He could feel the cold steel of the sword protruding from his chest. He could feel the warm blood, his blood, soaking into his shirt. He could feel the grass underneath him and the sky above him.

He could feel death closing in.

It whispered to him, telling him to let go. Give up, give in. Its touch was cool on his fevered brow. Its words were gentle on his shattered heart.

He could see a figure of a man above him, slightly translucent in the dying sun. A hand reached out towards him and pulled him up, and suddenly the weight he had carried around on his shoulders disappeared. He looked down and his body was still there, the sword in its stomach. His own bloodshot eyes stared at him, the life extinguished.

He should be afraid. He should be praying. But it was the first time in what felt like forever that he was at peace.

The man did not look like he expected. He expected an angel with glorious white wings, or a lady dressed in white that whispered cool words in his ear. But this man had broad shoulders and a face that kept losing focus. Then it solidified, and Aramis understood.

Porthos du Vallon stood before him in all his glory, his blue sash that he was so proud of draped over his shoulder. His hat reflected the sunlight, and his face was so different to how it had looked when they had first buried him. There were no wounds on him, but the scar across his eye was still there. He smiled at his friend with a smile so broad and so happy Aramis couldn't help but return it. His eyes were carefree in a way the musketeer couldn't remember seeing them, devoid of the pain that they had become so used to carrying.

"Hello 'Mis. Long time no see.


End file.
